


It All Comes Crashing Back To Me

by Mallory_Clayborne



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, But he didn't escape unharmed, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, I like it when the Gist gets gory apologies, Larrikin Lives (Skulduggery Pleasant), M/M, Nefarian Serpine (mentioned) - Freeform, Non-Chronological, Skulduggery Pleasant (mentioned) - Freeform, Suffering, Tagged T just to be on the safe side with the gore and that, The Dead Men (Skulduggery Pleasant), excessive mundane day-to-day workings of the midnight hotel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28001694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallory_Clayborne/pseuds/Mallory_Clayborne
Summary: In 1929, mere months before the Truce, Nefarian Serpine tried to kill Dexter Vex.Perhaps too loyal for his own good, Larrikin saved him.The war ended, but nobody expected the consequences of that day in Wales that Larrikin would face for the rest of his life.Mostly bitter, but a little sweet towards the end.
Relationships: Larrikin/Anton Shudder
Kudos: 17





	1. Prologue - Why Did It Turn Out Like This

**Author's Note:**

> Been a while. But this was fun, even if I'm not entirely happy with the somewhat janky pacing. Oh well, I'm not a professional or anything.
> 
> This is probably my favourite 'fairly canon-compliant AU', though I'm undecided on how LSoDM fits with it.  
>  All that differs to canon is that Larrikin lived through the war. (I suppose that also means Anton never dated Satrap, though.)
> 
> There was originally a sex scene at the end, but it felt too long and I thought I may as well put it as a chapter in 'A Shudderkin Tribute', seeing as I have that lying around just *waiting* for self-indulgent smut. I won't give any projected timeframe for that though, because I am WILDLY unreliable with touch-ups and editing. Isolating that scene did also allow me to leave the rating of this lower, though.

Anton woke in the early hours of the morning to a soft snuffling noise next to him. It likely meant that Larrikin had metabolised his painkillers too quickly, and thus he’d woken in discomfort. Anton reached out a hand to his bedside table, and switched on the small, stained glass table lamp. It blinked to life, dispersed light in pastel tones illuminating the room just enough for the couple to see each other. Anton rolled onto his side and gently tugged Larrikin’s hand away from his mouth, where he was biting the heel of his palm.

“Sorry,” Larrikin whispered. “I tried not to wake you up.” Anton shook his head. 

“Don’t worry about me. How bad is it?” Larrikin twisted to look at Anton. His eyes were glittering wet under the light, and Anton sighed sadly, leaning across a little and gently kissing Larrikin’s tear-wet cheek. Larrikin hiccuped slightly.

“It’s been worse. But I had a really nasty dream, too. It was you, instead of Dex, but I was too far away and the battlefield was like a marsh, but because Serpine k-” Larrikin’s voice had gotten louder, but it broke all of a sudden. He half sobbed, half coughed. Anton rubbed gentle circles onto Larrikin’s palm with his thumb. Larrikin took a few careful breaths before continuing.

“Because Serpine killed you, we didn’t have the Gist to take down the other soldiers. Skulduggery held them off for a while, but… well. Then suddenly I was in pain. Blinding pain. Like it was when he did it to me. And then I woke up.”

The two looked at each other for a while, quiet. Anton didn’t have to speak to him; Larrikin just wanted to know Anton was there, wouldn’t leave him, would help him go back to sleep. After a while, Larrikin rolled closer to Anton, and Anton shifted so Larrikin could curl up into his arms. Occasionally, the smaller man shivered and whimpered slightly with surges of pain. Anton idly stroked Larrikin’s hair, soothing him as best as possible. Eventually, Larrikin relaxed somewhat onto Anton’s chest and his breathing deepened, and Anton carefully reached out a hand to turn the lamp off again.

This repeated three or four times a week for roughly the next eighty years.


	2. War Phase - What Do We Keep On Fighting For

In 1929, the Dead Men were hunting down the remaining fragments of Mevolent’s army. The biggest threat was the remaining company under Serpine’s command - the field army had traditionally been controlled by Vengeous, but he’d been captured. The fight had brought the Black-Ops squad to Wales, and they’d closed in on the remaining General, tracking him and his soldiers across the countryside to the stone ruins of an abandoned hamlet.

There were fewer enemy soldiers than the seven had anticipated; clearly, Serpine did not effect the same behaviour in standard ranks as Vengeous had. No, Serpine had always preferred to stay in his castles, torturing men and entertaining Mevolent and Serafina. The plan was simple, if dangerous: Dexter, Saracen and Erskine would approach from the south west, Skulduggery and Ghastly from the south east, with Larrikin and Anton staying out of sight south of the battle until the soldiers were sufficiently divided as to make resistance against the Gist difficult, if not impossible. 

Like every single one of the Dead Men’s plans, it was high risk, high reward. There was no room for delicacy: the only soldiers left would be very devoted to the Church of the Faceless, and killing them was the easier option. The necessity made the reality no more palatable. Risk initially won out when, during the two flank attacks, Larrikin and Anton suddenly heard, amongst gunshots and the crackles and explosions of magic, a sharp and distinct scream of serious pain from Saracen. 

Larrikin decided in a heartbeat to sprint towards the noise, and Anton ran after him, though keeping further back from the encampment. As soon as the enemy realised they were being attacked by the Dead Men, they’d start looking to see where Shudder was, where the Gist would come from. He had to stay hidden to keep any element of surprise.

Anton reached a decently intact section of wall he could crouch behind but still see a lot of what was going on, and he knew Larrikin had used his magic on Saracen when a burst of golden light suddenly lit up the battlefield like a flashbang. When his vision cleared, Anton looked towards the direction he knew Skulduggery and Ghastly were in, and given he could see occasional arcs of fire and the air looked slightly distorted, he could tell they were getting closer. 

It was usually either on Skulduggery or Erskine’s signal that Shudder finally used the Gist. He’d normally join in beforehand, shooting and stabbing and snapping necks; Anton was more than capable of physical violence, and over-reliance on the Gist was dangerous to him. But with larger numbers, it could be critical that the Gist was there to decimate enemies. Today, the call was Skulduggery’s responsibility; a specific signal pattern of fire thrown into the air. Anton waited. 

Saracen picked himself up off the ground, gingerly running his fingers over where just a minute ago, there’d been blood pouring from his temple and he knew his skull had been fractured. He watched Dexter kill the man who had hit him with a metal staff using a blast of energy to the neck, and in the sudden anger at hearing his friend scream in pain, the energy had been more powerful than usual. It burnt straight through the enemy soldier and killed two more men behind him. The energy was bright whitish-purple, parts of it splitting away and crackling almost like lightning. Saracen scanned the ground for where he’d dropped his gun, struggling to find it. 

“Here,” Larrikin yelled, sounding slightly out of breath, and Saracen quickly came over. He was holding Saracen’s gun, and had a hand on his head, gently pressing his fingers into his temple. It was to ease the small headache he had from healing Saracen; as soon as Saracen took his gun back, Larrikin grinned and drew his own weapon, a deadly sharp dagger of a newly-created woven metal that had been developed for scythes. Larrikin was the smallest of the Dead Men, agile and fast, though he was stronger than he looked.

Erskine shouted a warning and twisted part of the air into a violent slipstream as a surge of magic reached the four Dead Men on this side of the battlefield, a rush of deep purple, almost like sideways rain, suddenly approached. They weren’t sure what it was, but it got caught in the air; Larrikin motioned for Saracen to follow him to a different stone wall for more cover. 

When the two were crouched together, Larrikin quickly ran his free hand over the side of Saracen’s head, fingers pressing through his hair, checking his injury had been properly healed. Satisfied that Saracen wasn’t in any danger, he glanced out of cover to survey the battlefield, scanning for the origin point of the unexpected purple magic. 

Skulduggery and Ghastly had pushed forward, and they could see their squadmates, except Shudder. Ghastly punched a soldier with glowing eyes in the throat and she collapsed to the ground. Skulduggery threw someone away from him with the air, and the pair advanced further, closing the gap between themselves and the other Dead Men. Ghastly cursed as suddenly, Erskine was twenty feet up in the air, being buffeted by a tyrian haze that he was desperately pushing the air against, screaming. 

“Serpine,” growled Skulduggery, and him and Ghastly ran faster, looking into the enemy ranks and searching for their commanding general.

The flanking had worked to get rid of some enemy soldiers, and the remaining numbers were only just managing to get into some sort of coherent formation after the shock of the attack. Skulduggery sent two fireballs as high into the air as he could and used the air to make them crash into each other at their apex - not the signal for the Gist, but the signal for Shudder to approach and get ready. Shudder saw it and vaulted the dry stone wall he was concealed behind, sprinting maybe 300 feet to another pile of old rocks. 

He had a clearer view of his squadmates now, and he suppressed a slight laugh as he saw Larrikin scramble up a giant of a man like he was climbing a tree, slitting his throat on the way up and using the man’s stumbling body as a springboard to jump to where Erskine had managed to get himself out of the cloud of purple vapour and had crashed into the ground near Dexter unceremoniously. 

“I’m absolutely fine,” Erskine wheezed breathlessly in pain as Dexter met an enemy energy blast with his own. Larrikin helped pull Erskine up, and their joined hands glowed gold for a few seconds. Erskine relished the warmth and the way it flowed through his blood and stopped bruises from his fall appearing, and he was turning to rejoin the fight just as Dexter couldn’t hold the covering energy beam any longer. 

Dexter switched targets, and Erskine hit someone solidly in the chest with a fireball, and Larrikin ran over to stab a man who was grappling with Saracen, and Ghastly shifted the water in the soil to make a woman fall to the ground before kicking her in the ribs, and Skulduggery shot a sorcerer in the head before he had a chance to use magic. They worked well together.

The plan was going fairly smoothly, and that’s the only thing that made Saracen turn, that natural instinct that something was about to go horribly wrong. The instant he looked, he met terribly beautiful emerald green eyes, and he jumped forward out of instinct, crashing into Serpine and they both hit the ground. He hit Serpine, and Serpine hit him, catching the side of Saracen’s head, well-versed in the concept that hitting the Dead Men anywhere they had clothes was ineffective thanks to their damn tailor. Saracen rolled away from Serpine and scrambled up, but then a man he didn’t recognise knelt and put his hand on Serpine and both of them vanished. 

Saracen shouted ‘teleporter’ as loud as he could, loud enough that all the Dead Men heard it, and their job got more difficult in an instant. If Serpine had a teleporter, he’d be near impossible to pin down, and any one of them could suddenly find themselves in danger. There were only maybe two dozen soldiers now, and the Dead Men were hemming them in for Shudder to finish off, but a teleporter tipped things back into Serpine’s favour.

Apprehending Serpine was suddenly not the priority: now, it was a game of making sure none of the Dead Men died here on this field. Ghastly ran towards Saracen, who’d taken cover behind a wall to reload his gun, given he had no offensive magic. 

“What do we do?” Saracen said.

“Skulduggery won’t stop. Corrival told us to retreat if we couldn’t win, rather than trying, because we can find them again, but,” Ghastly hurled fire over the wall and registered a new scream that meant he’d hit his mark, “you know he won’t call us back. Bastard won’t signal Shudder now, it’ll scare Serpine off.”

“So?”

“So just kill everyone you can and don’t die,” Ghastly said before abandoning the cover and going to fight two of the enemy sorcerers. 

The Dead Men kept fighting, but they all - especially Skulduggery - were getting more and more on edge every second that Serpine made no reappearance. If his plan had been to retreat immediately, he wouldn’t have bothered attacking Erskine or attempting to attack Saracen; he wasn’t going to abandon an opportunity to take down one of Corrival’s best so easily. 

Then, there was a ripple of shouting among the enemy soldiers, just the word ‘viper’, some kind of code word, and two sorcerers dressed in red abandoned the fight and began running towards the treeline of the forest in the southwest. Dexter shouted to Skulduggery, and Skulduggery told him to go. Larrikin sprinted after Dexter, conscious that he didn’t want Dexter to be alone, reasoning with himself that the other four still fighting also had Shudder. 

Dexter was faster than both of the sorcerers, and he slammed into one of them before discharging a blast of energy into their face at point blank range. The air immediately around the sorcerer shimmered and seemed to absorb most of the attack, and they did their best to throw Dexter off them. Larrikin closed in on the second and threw his dagger from a short distance away, cringing slightly as it found its target and pierced into the sorcerer’s right eye. Shudder almost smiled as he watched it happen, a knife in the eye being his go-to technique with a blade. 

Dexter and the sorcerer he’d blasted had both gotten back up and were trading physical blows. He slammed a kick down onto the soldier’s knee and there was a grotesque popping ‘crack’ as their kneecap was smashed out of place. Dex caught them under the jaw with an uppercut as they were going down, and they didn’t move again after they hit the ground. 

Larrikin had taken his dagger back and slashed at the screaming, half-blinded soldier, knife cutting through even the reinforced uniform and parting flesh. The sorcerer kicked at Larrikin to get him away and threw a fireball that hit his shoulder, but then Dexter made him stumble with a blast of energy to the chest and Larrikin stabbed him in the throat, wincing at the gurgling noise the sorcerer made as his windpipe filled with blood. Larrikin knelt briefly and wiped the gunky mess on his dagger onto the grass. Dexter offered him a hand up, and Larrikin reached up to take it. 

There was a soft ‘pop’ noise just behind Dexter and Larrikin looked past him. His eyes widened and he grabbed Dexter’s hand, surging upwards and throwing his whole body into the energy thrower. Dexter stumbled and fell to one knee, Larrikin’s light frame not enough to knock him over completely. Larrikin used his momentum to vault over Dexter, bodily shielding him. Dexter twisted to look, but Larrikin kept his gaze trained on Serpine, holding eye contact and not glancing down at the sorcerer’s right hand, outstretched and glittering with blood in the weak sunshine. 

Anton’s thoughts caught up with his vision, and then time froze for him, Larrikin, and Dexter. None of the three could tell who was screaming loudest. It was like the others on the other side of the field had disappeared. 

Serpine grinned with malice as Larrikin dropped to the ground, no longer screaming, and the teleporter reached out to touch his master’s shoulder and then they were both gone. 

Erskine, Saracen, Skulduggery and Ghastly all looked up at an inhuman howling, and Shudder was closer to them than they’d all expected, and then his Gist surged forward. Ghastly pulled Skulduggery back as an enemy sorcerer was torn into ribbons two feet in front of him, and Saracen looked at Erskine with concern. The Gist was so black and solid it was like looking into a void, like the fabric of reality had ripped and a barely-comprehensible monster had emerged. The other hostile soldiers scattered and began running, and a few seemed to disappear as they ran, likely the teleporter working his fastest. But the rest, the unlucky ones, were caught by the Gist. 

But the Gist being so scarily tangible wasn’t the only worrying sign Shudder was doing something different to normal. Shudder tended to kneel when he released the Gist, or at least stand still, planted heavily on the ground, but not now. No, Shudder was walking jerkily forwards as the Gist shrieked and ripped men to shreds, almost as if the Gist was tugging him forward. Even the killing wasn’t the same as normal: the Gist was a force of pure malice, and it usually just decimated life as quickly as it possibly could. But it wasn’t killing these sorcerers like that - it was tearing off limbs and throwing the soldiers around, it was plunging its clawed hands into their backs and leaving them twitching half-paralysed on the ground. It was stopping them from running away, but not killing them immediately. 

Shudder - the Gist - both of them - had decided these sorcerers were to be tortured before they died. 

Shudder was now close enough that he was getting sprayed with remains when the Gist targeted some of the soldiers who hadn’t made it as far. Ruined bits of human, muscle and bone and blood and guts splattered the Gist and its host, and alarmingly to his friends, Shudder was breathing heavily through his mouth, letting the pulverised flesh coat his tongue and throat. 

When all the remaining enemy sorcerers were incapacitated, the Gist killed them as violently as it could; ripping away chunks of flesh while the sorcerer screamed in agony, then tearing their face off and leaving them to exsanguinate; piercing through a chest to grab a sorcerer’s heart in its talons and tearing it out; opening its jaw horrifically wide and ripping out a sorcerer’s throat with its monstrous fangs. 

Only when everything in that field other than the Dead Men themselves was utterly devoid of life did Shudder drop to his knees, and he screamed in a way that sounded almost as inhuman as the Gist. The Gist kept screeching, and with nothing left to kill, Shudder should be taking it back now, but he left it to shred enemy corpses into grotesque confetti, shaking with anguish the whole time. 

When the section of battlefield was turning muddy from the Gist churning up the earth and mixing it with blood, the Gist finally jerked back and the trails connecting it to Shudder’s chest taughtened. All the vile residue coating the Gist couldn’t be withdrawn into Shudder, so it clung to his skin instead, leaving him drenched in an unholy amount of gore. 

Then the Gist was gone, and five of the Dead Men were stood, watching Shudder, lost for words. He didn’t look at any of them. He was in pain, and he felt exhaustion deep in the cores of his bones, but despite it, he forced himself to stand, and turned towards where Dexter was stood, Larrikin lying on the ground just behind him. Miraculously, Shudder’s body didn’t give out as he walked over. 

Anton fell to his knees on the ground next to Larrikin, and then lay down. 

Golden light suddenly burst out from Larrikin’s entire being, completely obscuring Anton’s vision with brightness, and then everything turned black and he passed out. 

An hour or so after passing out, Anton had woken up to see his friends sitting a few metres away in a circle, Larrikin lying in the middle on a makeshift stretcher, and Anton had struggled to sit up. They’d looked at him, and he’d started crying. But Skulduggery had spoken, even as the others looked away:

“Shudder. He isn’t dead.”

Erskine and Ghastly had taken water from the air and helped to rinse as much of the bloody mess as they could off of Shudder. When he was as clean as he was going to get, he’d come over to Larrikin and knelt by him, lifting his wrist and choking on a sob as he felt Larrikin’s weak, but present, pulse. His chest was rising and falling softly, but occasionally his whole body seemed to seize, a pained expression passing over his face even though he was unconscious. Anton had crawled forward a little and gently brushed some of Larrikin’s ginger corkscrew curls away from his eyes. 

Serpine had escaped that day, and a few months later, the Irish Sanctuary had reached out to Nefarian Serpine on behalf of their side of the war and agreed upon a Truce. Serpine’s last recorded act of personal violence before the end of the war was his attempt to kill Dexter Vex; he had idly stated, at a negotiation table some time after, that he hadn’t been targeting any Dead Man in particular, just whichever one happened to get too close would be the one to die. As it had happened, Larrikin - loyal to a fault, as always - had saved Vex’s life, Serpine had said, at the cost of his own. 

Mr Bliss, present for the discussion, had looked at Serpine curiously, and Serpine had leant back in his chair. 

“You have a question?” Serpine had asked. Bliss had paused, and then shaken his head minutely. 

“Merely an observation.” Serpine had stayed silent. After a little while, Corrival Deuce had chuckled slightly. Serpine’s eyes had narrowed. 

“You only ever killed one Dead Man, Serpine, and he got up and kept fighting. Seems your weapon was never as infallible as you thought.” Serpine hadn’t reacted; Meritorious had moved the negotiations on before he could.

The war ended in supposèd peace; Hopeless was the only Dead Man to have been lost; Larrikin suffered the consequences of that day in Wales long after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I’ve been inconsistent with the timeline in this (thinking about it some more, I reckon in canon Mevolent died AFTER Larrikin). Sorry about that! Just try and roll with it, when your fave series takes place mostly over 600 years or so, remembering the timeline gets a bit difficult. Don’t get me started on the weird timeline irregularities with Abyssinia and Vile in the latest books.


	3. Modern Phase - How Do We Move On From This Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Modern phase' - technically it's Summer 2007, concurrent with the final events of the first book.

Summer, 2007, and Larrikin was sitting in the Midnight Hotel’s reading room, curled up in an oversized squishy armchair, a book about the mortal Spanish Civil War lying open on his lap. But he was gazing out of the window, distracted for the moment from the words by pain that clouded his mind and made it difficult to focus. 

They were in Scotland, and Larrikin watched a pair of squirrels running around near the trees he could see. Anton came into the room, carrying a tray with two cups of tea, a small white paper envelope, and a bag of marshmallows on it. He set the tray down on the table and drew up a more normal chair from across the room; he wasn’t a fan of being completely enveloped by his choice of seating, unlike Larrikin.

“What do you think squirrels think about all day?” Larrikin asked. Anton considered the question for a moment. 

“Acorns. Their kits. Trees.”

“So food, family, and home. That’s… not so different to us.” Larrikin looked at Anton, and smiled. Even with his eyes slightly glassy from the pain he was in, Larrikin’s smile was like pure sunshine, and Anton felt so deeply bittersweet gazing upon him. 

Larrikin reached out to the tray, and took the envelope. He opened it, and shook the contents out onto his palm. Two circular white pills, and two spherical green ones, picked up from Kenspeckle Grouse a week or so ago. He was possibly the best source of science magic in the world, and he’d been trying for almost eighty years now to try and find a cure for Larrikin’s chronic pain. He’d been unsuccessful in curing it, but he’d found a few things that could help Larrikin better manage it. 

All those years ago, when Larrikin had been brought home from the war spending almost every waking minute crying, Kenspeckle had theorised what had happened. Larrikin’s magic had been vitakineticism, like Kenspeckle himself, though Larrikin had trained his to be expressed differently, given he was a battlefield medic. It was no different to how one ergokineticist may throw energy from their hands - like Dexter Vex - but another may discharge it from their eyes - like Frightening Jones. 

Vitakineticism, then, is inherently life magic. Nefarian Serpine’s red right hand was a Necromancy technique: death magic. When Serpine had used this power on Larrikin, Larrikin’s own magic had saved his life, where any other sorcerer would have died. Instead of killing him, the power caused two other things to happen to Larrikin. 

One, he was in pain almost all the time. It wasn’t always utter agony, like how it felt while Serpine used the technique, but it was almost always present. 

Two, Larrikin could no longer use his magic. He couldn’t summon the golden light he used to heal his comrades. He still seemed to have magic: he’d not aged any faster than most sorcerers since the war, but likely it was all being used keeping Larrikin alive, and none was left to be used at will. 

Nobody could think of a better explanation, so everyone had accepted Dr Grouse’s theory. Kenspeckle had kept Larrikin as a patient, trying his best to improve Larrikin’s quality of life. The Necromancers had been incredibly unhelpful, stating that they couldn’t share information about their magic with outsiders (‘if you cowards hadn’t broken your own ridiculous rule in the first place, we wouldn’t be in this situation’, Skulduggery had said to Solomon Wreath before punching him in the face). Larrikin’s life settled into a routine of taking medicines to see what they did, and learning ways to distract himself from the pain while he and Anton ran the Midnight. 

Over the years, there had definitely been improvements: Larrikin could do most things now, though he tended to spend a few hours a day having to just rest quietly, and he still woke in the night from spikes of pain more days than he didn’t. But it was better than the near constant pain it had been for most of the 1930s, and for that he was grateful. 

Sitting across from Anton, in the 21st Century, he swallowed all four of the pills and stuck his tongue out at the bitterness that lingered on his tongue. Anton smiled at the way Larrikin’s nose scrunched up. 

“Is that what you think about all day?” Larrikin asked as he reached for his tea. 

“I tend to spend most of my time thinking about you, the hotel, and the Gist, in that order.”

“Huh. Mine is probably you, sweets and ‘ow that hurts’, in that order.”

“Very kind of you, but I think you might spend more time thinking about sweets than me.” 

“Probably because when I finish eating something, there’s still evidence it existed. But when you leave the room, there isn’t. I have the object permanence of a toddler.” Larrikin was smiling again, and Anton laughed softly. He was about to reply, when his phone rang in his pocket. Larrikin tutted dramatically and said something about phones in the reading room. Anton greeted whoever it was fairly warmly, but his expression hardened as he listened to what they had to say. Larrikin grew concerned. When Anton ended the call, Larrikin looked at him expectantly.

“Corrival. There’s… the Irish Sanctuary’s been betrayed. Sagacious Tome is a traitor. Meritorious and Crow are dead.”

“ _ What _ ?”

“Nefarian Serpine has broken the Truce. He murdered the other elders. Serpine wants to finish what Mevolent started and bring back the Dark Gods. And then something… about the Sceptre of the Ancients.” Larrikin looked forlorn. 

“I… shit. That's _not good_. But the Sceptre? What’s that got to do with it?”

“Apparently involved. Apparently real. Corrival doesn’t know everything yet, though. Just that the Truce is broken and our elders are dead, or worse.” Anton sighed. Larrikin considered this. Then, quietly:

“Are… Are we going to go to war again?”

“Corrival said they’re trying to stop that from happening. They’re going to get Skulduggery to try and stop Serpine doing whatever it is he’s doing now. Though what he’s actually achieved by killing the elders, no idea. Unrest, I suppose.” Larrikin suddenly winced as a wave of pain washed over his body. 

Anton stood and walked over to Larrikin, who wriggled over until Anton could sit with him in the armchair. Larrikin wriggled some more until he was half in Anton’s lap. Anton hugged him, and kissed the top of his head. When the wave of pain passed, Larrikin spoke. 

“I’ll be useless if there’s another war.”

“You… wouldn’t be.” Larrikin looked up at Anton, and there were tears glittering in the corners of his eyes.

“It’s alright. I know I’m worth more as a person than my use in a fight. I just… I don’t want there to have to be any more fighting.” 

Larrikin shifted up a little and kissed Anton properly, and the two of them sat together there for quite a while, drinking tea and gazing out of the window, wondering if their world was about to be ripped apart and put back together differently like it had been once before. 

Later, Anton was checking a pair of guests in at the front desk when there was a muffled sound from across the lobby. The guests didn’t seem to notice, but Anton did, and he sped up the process as much as he could. He could fill out the ledger properly later; the noise had been from Larrikin, who’d fed and then been watching one of their sororities of pet betta fish on the other side of the lobby, but was now sitting on the floor with tears pooling in his eyes and his hands clamped over his mouth. Anton told the guests how to get to their room, and they went, and he immediately rushed over to Larrikin.

“Carry you to bed?” Anton asked, and Larrikin nodded, making another noise of serious pain behind his hands. Anton bent down and picked Larrikin up bridal-style, and tried to keep him still while walking quickly to the door that led to their private rooms in the hotel. 

Like the guest rooms, their little apartment was soundproofed, so when Anton had deposited him on the bed, Larrikin twisted his hands into the sheets and keened in pain. Anton sat at the foot of the bed and unlaced Larrikin’s Converse, setting them on the floor and kicking off his own oxfords before moving up to lie next to Larrikin on the bed. 

Larrikin rolled over so he was pressed up against Anton and sobbed into his shirt, fidgeting relentlessly as he tried to do anything to ease the pain he was suddenly feeling. It was like nothing he’d experienced since the 1930s: the pain was pulsating, but every time it intensified, it reached higher and higher peaks. 

After ten minutes, Larrikin was in what he’d describe as agony, hardly able to breathe between the crests of pain, curled up on himself, horrible noises occasionally ripping themselves from his throat. Anton was rubbing his back and stroking his hair, in tears of his own at how scared and hurt Larrikin was. 

Larrikin’s thoughts were barely coherent now, just wanting it to end, to pass out, for the pain to stop. Then the pain hit him again, the worst it had been so far, and it was like something snapped in his mind, because it suddenly felt exactly how it had when Serpine had caused this in the first place. 

But this time the pain didn’t ebb before returning - Larrikin shook where he lay with how hard his muscles were contracting, and the only thought he had left was how much he wanted to die, how much he wanted to just be numb, because hell like this wasn’t worth living in. 

Then the bedroom was swathed in golden light, and when the light faded and Anton’s vision returned, strange colours still visible to him after the shocking brightness, Larrikin was unconscious, his muscles relaxed and his expression one that didn’t read as pained at all. Anton lay holding Larrikin for a quarter of an hour or so, trying to think of an explanation for what had just happened.

That had been Larrikin’s magic. Anton hadn’t seen it for eighty years, but it was impossible to forget a thing like that.

Then again, it was also impossible for Larrikin to have used it.

Only when it seemed like Larrikin wouldn’t wake up imminently did Anton carefully slip out of bed and undress himself properly. Larrikin had already been in a t-shirt and comfortable shorts: he liked to get changed after dinner. Anton tidied the bedroom a little, and went to put his hair in a ponytail and brush his teeth. He brought back a glass of water, in case Larrikin woke in the night. Finally, he got back into bed and arranged Larrikin in his arms the same way as always, able to bury his face in Larrikin’s curls, and slowly fell asleep.

IN the morning, Larrikin made a sleepy noise as he woke to the noise of the alarm beeping. He was draped over Anton, so he rolled off to the side and shook him. Anton blinked until he could see, and then reached out to click the alarm off. He stood from the bed, and stretched his shoulders back until they clicked audibly. 

“You’re so old,” Larrikin said, his voice still slightly dreamy and faraway, and Anton looked at him over his shoulders, eyebrows raised. 

“You’re nearly 200.”

“And you’re coming up on half a century.”

“Larrikin,” Anton said as he took his pyjamas off and dropped them into the basket in the corner of the room before heading into the en-suite, “I’m several decades closer to 400 than 500.”

“Still more than twice my age,” Larrikin replied through a yawn, his voice getting louder as he walked towards the bathroom too. Anton had turned on the shower and gotten in already, so Larrikin just dropped his pyjamas in a puddle on the floor and got in with him, immediately turning the water heat up immensely. Anton gave him a look. 

“Larrikin, I’m almost a foot closer to the water than you are. It’s scorching up here.”

“Would you shut up? I’m not that short. Besides, I’m not in any pain and I don’t want cool water to set any off.” Anton considered this, pulling out his hair tie before starting to shampoo his hair and then handing the bottle to Larrikin. When soap bubbles clung to his hair, Anton always said Larrikin looked like a sheep with excessive freckles. 

“You were in a lot of pain last night,” Anton noted. Larrikin visibly cringed at the memory. 

“Yes. A lot. A lot a lot. It hurt so badly, Anton, more than it has in years. God knows what’s in the newest pills I’m taking, but they didn’t help then. It was like… it got to like how it felt when Serpine tried to kill me in the first place.”

“Do you remember falling asleep?”

“No. I passed out at some point, though, clearly.” Anton hesitated, tipping his head back and letting water run through his hair until it ran clear. 

“I think… you used your magic. Just before you went unconscious.” Larrikin looked at Anton, expression unreadable. He didn’t say anything. Anton felt slightly awkward. After a few silent moments except for the noise of the water, Larrikin stepped around Anton and washed the soap out of his curls. 

“Impossible,” Larrikin finally said, voice quiet but striking. “Haven’t used magic in eighty years and I’m not about to start now.”

“But you said yourself, the pain wasn’t normal, so perhaps-”

“Anton, I don’t have any magic left to use, okay? There’s no way I could have, no matter what you say,” Larrikin said, tone insistent and booking no argument. They looked at each other. Anton wasn’t sure if it was just water from the shower on Larrikin’s face, or if he’d shed a few tears. Anton reached out to hug Larrikin, and they held each other under the hot water. 

“I’m sorry,” Anton said into Larrikin’s hair. 

“I have a headache,” Larrikin replied quietly.

Later, the two of them were behind the front desk of the hotel, Larrikin carrying on with his book on the Spanish Civil War and Anton reading a book he’d borrowed a week or so ago from China Sorrows about the Irish Necromancer Order. Larrikin was only wearing linen shorts and a crop top, and Anton didn’t have a blazer on and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, the metal band holding the key to Room 24 visible. They were just south of Hyderabad, and the heat of the Indian summer permeated the hotel. 

The warm air shifted slightly as someone came through the front door, and Anton looked up. Dexter Vex approached, tanned moreso than usual, and smiled as he did, shaking Anton’s hand when he reached the desk. 

“Dexter!” said Larrikin as soon as he looked up, and he went around the side of the desk to hug Dexter. Dexter smelled of cologne, sweat, and adventure.

“It’s good to see you,” Anton said. 

“And you both. Didn’t think you liked the heat, Shudder. I was surprised to hear that you were in town, so to speak.”

“I had hoped hotel would stay cool enough. I was naïve.”

“Now that’s something you don’t admit to often.” 

Anton came out from behind the desk, and motioned to the group of sofas and chairs by the fish tanks. The three moved to sit down together, and Dexter pulled a bottle of water from the backpack he put down at his feet.

“What are you doing here?” Larrikin asked Dexter. 

“I’m in India to look for some Phalanx Tigers that have apparently been eating a bunch of people. Bane and O’Callahan are further north in Kolkata, I’m going to fly up to meet them. Plus, I’m vegetarian again and the food’s great here. But, ah, Corrival’s been trying to contact you two.” Anton frowned slightly.

“He called yesterday when we were in Scotland. The Truce is broken. The Irish Sanctuary has fallen.”

“I know you know that. But you haven’t been told what’s happened since. Corrival called Saracen, who called me. Serpine’s dead.” Anton and Larrikin stared at Dexter, shocked into silence by his words. Dexter drank some more of his water, and also drank in the way Anton and Larrikin reacted.

“Serpine’s dead?” Larrikin finally echoed.

“Yeah. Skulduggery killed him with the Sceptre of the Ancients. He’s a pile of dust on the Repository floor. After the elders were killed, Skul and his new partner - did someone tell you, Gordon Edgley's niece - went into the Sanctuary. Apparently Serpine massacred the place. But Skulduggery being, well, Skulduggery, he ignored the fact it was stupidly dangerous and went to confront Serpine anyway. And this time, he won.”

Anton’s thoughts rushed ahead of him, and he turned to look at Larrikin. 

“I know what you’re thinking, and we can discuss it later,” Larrikin interrupted Anton, quite sternly. He immediately turned his attention back to Dexter. “What does that mean for the Truce?” Dexter shrugged.

“No idea. And we won’t have any idea until there’s a new Irish Grand Mage. God knows who that’ll be. A second war against Mevolent’s side doesn’t seem likely, though. I mean, for one, who’d lead them now?”

“And the Sceptre?” Anton asked. 

“Skulduggery broke it. China’s got it as an ornament on her mantelpiece. He also destroyed the Book of Names.”

“He never did do things by halves, did he?” Larrikin said, and then looked away from the other men, gazing into the fish tank. his eyes following the blue frills of a betta fish named Midday.

Anton fetched a chessboard, and he played Dexter in the corner of the Midnight for a couple of hours, Larrikin sitting nearby but unusually quiet. Anton and Dexter spoke about the events of the last few days back home in Ireland, speculating over who the new Grand Mage would be, and Dexter told Anton everything - admittedly little - he knew about Valkyrie Cain, Skulduggery’s new apprentice. At some point during one of the games, Anton’s watch beeped, and he asked Dexter for a brief reprieve while he fetched Larrikin’s medication. 

Anton returned with the small envelope of pills and three bottles of water he’d obviously just taken from a fridge, given the condensation coating them. He played the rest of the chess game - Dexter won this round, but only just - and settled back in his chair for a little bit, sipping at his water. Anton offered to check Dexter in, saying it was rude he hadn’t done that already, but Dexter checked his watch and declined to stay, given he needed to go and meet the Monster Hunters, and it was only a short while until the hotel moved to Slovenia.

Even with the Requiem Ball each decade, the seven Dead Men hadn’t all been in one place together since the war. Shudder hated the Ball with a passion and Larrikin was too ill for big events. Dexter and Saracen spent much of their time travelling, to find adventure or to run as far from adventure as they could, respectively. Erskine was a magical diplomat, Corrival’s prodigy, and spent much of his free time in America with his girlfriend, Elder Zafira Kerias. Skulduggery was always being sent around the country on impossible jobs for the Sanctuary, and Ghastly kept himself busy with making clothes and watching CSI. 

Any moments, then, they could have with their brothers in arms was precious, and Larrikin especially was unhappy that Dexter couldn’t stay any longer. Anton refilled his canteen for him, and Dexter gave the two hoteliers a bag of nankhatai biscuits he’d picked up in the city that morning and completely forgotten he’d had in his bag. Even Anton embraced Dexter just before he left, but then Anton and Larrikin were alone in the foyer again. The hotel only had three guests at the moment, and none of them were particularly social (which suited Anton just fine).

“So,” Larrikin said, sitting back down on the sofa by the fish tanks, legs tucked underneath himself. Anton sat in a chair opposite.

“So,” Anton echoed.

“Serpine’s dead. Shame.” Anton quirked an eyebrow at Larrakin's words. Larrikin smiled coldly, unusually, and it didn’t reach his eyes. He continued:

“I would have liked to have had a go at him beforehand. I wonder if dying to the Sceptre of the Ancients is painful.” 

Larrikin gazed off into one of the tanks, and Anton saw the way his eyes followed the elegant movement of one of the bettas, a girl named Sixteen. Larrikin was not a malicious person, and he didn’t often hold grudges, but his words were tinged with a dark bitterness. Bitterness at the parts of his life Serpine had stolen from him. Bitterness at the way the Truce protected him, while Larrikin suffered each day. Bitterness that, in honesty, scared him to feel, because the Dead Men had seen how bitterness had festered and rotted inside Skulduggery.

Larrikin never wanted that to happen to him, and so he took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. War had left scars in his mind, and he didn’t want to irritate them with malice and grudges. Anton moved from his chair to sit next to Larrikin, and Larrikin reached across to hold one of Anton’s hands.

“I didn’t mean to overstep your boundaries in front of Dexter,” Anton said. “I’m sorry.”

“He wouldn’t have known what you were thinking. I just know that we’re suddenly at the edge of a rabbit hole, and I didn’t want either of us to fall in with him watching. Sorry for snapping at you.” Anton’s brow creased slightly.

“Larrikin, you’re apologising unnecessarily. I’m sorry for being presumptuous.”

“Sorry.”

“Shush.” Larrikin smiled, and Anton did too. He reached his free hand across to Larrikin’s exposed waist, and skittered his fingers over Larrikin’s skin, tickling him lightly. Larrikin smiled wider and giggled a little. He twisted where he sat, and looked at Anton.

“You said that last night, I used my magic. I was in a hell of a lot of pain, and then I passed out. But you say there was a blast of golden light, like the most extreme way I ever used to be able to.”

“I did.”

“But that’s not possible. Doctor Grouse says all the magic in me is keeping me alive. I can’t express it outwardly.”

“Apparently.”

“Now we find out that, in other insane and ridiculous things happening last night, Skulduggery turned Serpine to ash. With a deadly weapon that was only supposed to be a myth. So Serpine is unequivocally dead.”

“Indeed.”

“So, am I right in thinking we both came to the same conclusion? That if you’re not lying, or hallucinating, and you did, in fact, see something last night, and that something was, in fact, my magic, that it’s something to do with how the zealot who took my magic in the first place got turned to dust?”

“...essentially.” Larrikin unfurled himself, and dramatically stretched out his limbs. Anton watched quizzically.

“Just a bit achey from carrying the conversation.” Larrikin could have sworn he saw Anton’s cheeks darken a shade, a very uncommon thing to elicit. 

“Sorry. I just don’t want you to think I’m being overbearing. It’s your situation, your magic, after all.”

“Anton, this is  _ our _ life. Which we’re pretty damn lucky to have together.”

Which, yes, they were. Either could have died at any point during the war, but even when Larrikin had been right on the edge, he’d survived. At any point when there was trouble (like that time a decade ago where he’d had to kill a vampire guest that broke out of its room in the night) Anton could use his Gist, and find he couldn’t control it any longer. That they were here, now, together, had taken a whole array of minor miracles.

Larrikin hadn’t taken the painkillers Anton had fetched while Dexter had been in the lobby; he wasn’t in any pain. Larrikin explained - words occasionally muffled by crunching from the nankhatai - how he felt. Normally, Larrikin woke in the morning stiff and achey, occasionally with bruises if he’d hit the bedframe somehow while tossing and turning. He’d take strong painkillers while getting ready, and help around the hotel in the mornings when he was feeling alright. A few hours later, he’d often be feeling pain mounting again, so he’d either take more painkillers, try and nap, or both.

Since waking this morning, Larrikin hadn't been in that familiar pain once. He felt as if he’d slept better than he had in years, too, and he felt physically well. He could do cartwheels around the lobby if Anton would let him, and the glimmer in his eyes when he said that made Anton think he’d probably walk in on Larrikin doing just that at some point.

“We could test it. A little drastically, but it would certainly answer something,” Anton tentatively suggested.

“How?” 

“Well, I’m currently uninjured. But if I were, you would theoretically be able to heal me - if you can indeed use your magic again.” Larrikin raised his eyebrows.

“And if I can’t?”

“I’m not suggesting something life-threatening. Here.” 

Anton stood for a second to retrieve his pocket knife from his trouser pocket. It was an old, well-worn but well-maintained tool he’d carried around since the end of the war, blade kept sharp and mechanism kept slick. He sat back down and flicked the knife open. Larrikin shuffled around to face Anton.

“Are you sure? I don’t… I don’t want to get my hopes up. If it doesn’t work, you’re just going to be stuck injured.”

“I’m sure I’ll live.” Anton held the blade against the pad of his left ring finger and then quickly slit it open, his breath catching a fraction but no other outward acknowledgement of the pain. He placed the knife down on the coffee table for now, and took his handkerchief from his shirt’s breast pocket, holding it underneath his cut finger to catch the droplets of blood now flowing. He looked up at Larrikin, who was a little pinker than usual, even obscured somewhat by his freckles. He grinned sheepishly.

“I just remembered how incredibly attractive I find you.” Larrikin confessed, and Anton smiled.

“Because self-mutilation is notoriously sexy, yes,” he teased. Larrikin rolled his eyes.

“Shut up and give me your hand.” Then, quieter. “So I can be disappointed already.” Anton extended his hand until it rested on Larrikin’s thigh, though still keeping the handkerchief under the small wound so he didn’t spill blood on Larrikin’s skin.

Larrikin twisted his wrist so he could splay his hand against Anton’s, palm to palm. Anton’s hands were quite a lot bigger than his; Larrikin had to move his hand up to actually touch where Anton was cut. Larrikin stared down at their touching hands, but Anton kept his eyes up, watching Larrikin’s expression. He frowned softly in concentration, and his eyes fluttered shut. 

Larrikin’s eyes suddenly snapped open and he looked straight up at Anton. His blue irises had been overtaken by a shining, honey-like gold hue, and Anton was captivated in a way he hadn’t been able to experience since 1929. Anton felt his hand warm up, and he could see the soft light radiating around it in his peripheral vision. He held Larrikin’s eye contact, and felt a strange compulsion to hold his breath. Ten seconds later, the light faded, and Larrikin blinked a few times, his eyes changing back to their normal colour. 

When Larrikin took his hand off of Anton’s, they both had blood smeared on them, but Anton was totally uninjured.

“Oh,” Larrikin whispered, “oh, my God.” Anton lifted his hand, and flexed his fingers. It was a small quirk the Dead Men had picked up over the years, but any time those of them who weren’t Elementals checked for breaks and sprains in their hands, they moved their hands through the motions Skulduggery, Ghastly or Erskine did when they pushed the air.

“Magic,” Anton said. “It’s a wonderful thing.” He looked up, and saw Larrikin’s eyes were filled with tears. When the first few spilled, Anton felt his chest tighten.

“Anton,” Larrikin said, “Anton, I did magic. I healed you.  _ I did magic _ .”

“You did,” Anton replied, and heard the way his voice cracked a little. Larrikin laughed, tears flowing freely over his cheeks.

“I… Skulduggery killed Serpine. I can do magic again. I’m not in pain. Anton, I’m… I’m  _ free. _ ”

Anton watched Larrikin for a few moments longer, before leaning down and kissing him. Larrikin kissed back, his hands coming up to grasp at the front of Anton’s shirt. He was still crying, and they could both taste the salt when a stray tear trickled over Larrikin’s lips. Anton lifted his hands to cup Larrikin’s face, gently stroking his thumbs over Larrikin’s cheeks, brushing away tears as they continued to fall. A minute later, both slightly breathless, they pulled away.

Larrikin giggled slightly, and gently brushed a droplet off of Anton’s cheek.  _ Oh, _ Anton thought idly,  _ I started crying too _ .

And of course, that was the moment someone hit the bell on the front desk. Both Anton and Larrikin could hear it, given they were in the lobby, but Anton also felt a short pulse of energy on his right wrist. He’d had a few tiny sigils carved into him by China Sorrows when the hotel had been built in the late 1930s; it was a part of him. He’d trusted her well enough to do it, given her past meant she was one of the people who would be best protected if she ever needed to stay in the hotel.

Anton stood, taking the opportunity to put away his pocket knife, and took his place behind the desk. A man with gills on the sides of his neck was stood there, his small suitcase at his feet. Anton mentally cursed himself for forgetting the guest - Mr Aquilus Kai, Anton hadn’t forgotten everything - had been going to check out now. He tried not to be embarrassed that the guest would have seen him kissing Larrikin.

“My apologies,” Anton said, but the man shook his head.

“No worries. You guys looked super happy.” 

“We received some… very good news. Permit me to check you out.” 

The motions he’d have to go through to check a guest out were as familiar as breathing to Anton, given it was his job and had been for decades. He bid the guest farewell after taking the key back, and then flipped open the ledger to sign and date it. Had he been less of a stoic man - like Saracen Rue, for example - he would have flinched badly when suddenly, Larrikin took the pen right out of his fingers. Anton hadn’t even noticed Larrikin's approach.

“Could have pickpocketed you. Or slit your throat.” Larrikin was twirling the pen between his fingers.

“I’d hope you wouldn’t. Give me back the pen, I need to write in the ledger.”

Larrikin leant forward, and read what Anton had written for the last guest check-out. He filled in the new section, transposing in the name ‘Kai’, and then a puzzled expression crossed his face.

“What time do I write?”

“The current time. Well, three minutes ago.”

“In this timezone?”

“Mmm. Always the current timezone. When was the last time you did this?”

“I hate paperwork. Thought you might have changed the system.”

“The system won’t change as long as I live.”

Anton let Larrikin finish the rest of the check-out, too, putting away the key, taking the carbon copy out of the ledger and moving it to the right filing cabinet. He didn’t do it as frequently as Anton, but he’d still managed it a lot over the last few decades, whenever he wasn’t too injured to work, so he could do it quickly enough. The only people in the hotel now were Larrikin, Anton and the two guests that had arrived yesterday. Larrikin was stood next to the key holder behind the front desk, twenty-four identical hooks of which only two were empty, 15 and 24. He had a soft, faraway look in his eyes.

“Larrikin?”

“I don’t know,” Larrikin said. His vice sounded strange, thick, perhaps. Like his words were difficult. His earlier jubilation had drained out of him. “I don’t know how I feel.”

“About… being able to do magic?”

“About how… sudden this seems.” Larrikin turned to face Anton, tears in his eyes again. When one fell, Larrikin made a noise of irritation and brought a hand to furiously brush it away.

“You can have a normal life again.”

“I think… I think I’m angry.”

“Okay. Would you like to talk to me about it?” Anton opened his arms slightly, offering Larrikin a hug. Larrikin stepped forwards with a small smile and let Anton embrace him.

“Skulduggery always said there shouldn’t have been a Truce. That Serpine should have been executed, or at least imprisoned properly like Vengeous. Because he was certain Serpine would betray a Truce. But Meritorious said no, and so… Serpine’s been free. For all this time. And because of that, I’ve been living, well, like I have. In pain. All the time. With no magic. But Skulduggery was right all along, and now Serpine’s finally dead. I know,” Larrikin’s voice broke, “I know lots of people have been killed at the Sanctuary, including Meritorious and Crow. So maybe I sound selfish. But I want… I want someone to acknowledge that I’ve gone through a hell I didn’t deserve and  _ there would have been a way to stop it _ .”

Anton didn’t know what to say. He knew Larrikin better than anyone else in this world, but it was still difficult to empathise with something so profoundly individual. He thought he understood what Larrikin was trying to say, though. If there ever had been a way to ‘fix’ Larrikin, they were expecting it would be some exciting medical development, payoff for decades of work by Dr Grouse, research found by spending every spare second in China’s library whenever the hotel was in Ireland, some epic culmination after all this struggle.

Instead, Serpine had died in the Sanctuary, observed only by Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain, and that had been it. The interaction between his magic and Larrikin’s magic was broken, and Larrikin could have his life back. At the end of it all, Serpine had just been one sorcerer, no stronger than many other well-known names like Skulduggery or Corrival or Bliss. Dr Grouse had been right - Serpine was the cause of Larrikin’s suffering. Now it was over, in a quiet bolt of black lightening.

Anton kissed the top of Larrikin’s head, the scent of hibiscus rising as Larrikin’s curls were gently disturbed. After a few minutes of standing there, embracing behind the desk, Larrikin wriggled a little, and Anton released him. Larrikin had stopped crying, though Anton’s shirt was still a little damp in places.

“I love you more than life itself,” Anton said, voice low, reverberating in his chest. Larrikin smiled, his eyes a little puffy.

“I love you too,” Larrikin replied. “I don’t know what to do now. Everything has changed, but nothing-”

“Has changed at all. I know. Here we are. In the hotel. Like always.”

“Like always.”

Anton felt another pulse of energy from a small sigil on his left wrist, and looked down at his watch. He looked back up and gazed out of the nearest window, the impossible manipulation of space outside the only indication the hotel was moving. It only took a few seconds, really, and the heat of Hyderabad was replaced with a view of a dense European forest.

“Where are we again?” Larrikin asked.

“Slovenia, west of Ljubljana.”

“Well,” Larrikin said, before sighing dramatically, “I suppose it’ll do.”

“Oh?”

“For figuring out what the hell this changes about our lives.”

“For one, you can do more work around the hotel now.”

“Suddenly, the pain is back.” Anton laughed, and it made Larrikin grin.

“I know you’re worried, but… but I’ll be right here with you,” Anton said, slightly awkward. A twinkle returned to Larrikin’s eyes.

“Look at that. Anton Shudder being heartfelt.”

“I might vomit.”

“Don’t. Right,” and Larrikin brushed past Anton as he walked out from behind the desk, “I can feel a draught coming in under the front door, so I’m going to go and get changed before my nipples freeze off.”

“I’ll come too. I can fetch my jacket. Then, perhaps we should eat something? I don’t care if you’re full from the nankhatai, you need to eat a vegetable.”

“Alright. Food’s a good idea. Everything has changed, but… not really anything. So for now, I guess, we just keep going?”

“Indeed. And perhaps now we’re in Europe, we could contact more of our friends?” Anton suggested.

“Sounds good. I really love you, Anton.”

“I really love you too.”

“We keep going.”

“We keep going.”

They met eyes, held the contact for a few seconds, and Larrikin burst into laughter. Anton rolled his eyes. As they walked over to their apartment door, Larrikin looked sideways at Anton with a strange expression. Anton looked back, quizzically.

Larrikin did a perfect cartwheel across the carpet.


End file.
